Karl sniffs. ‘I am not a child. I know the gods are not real. They are not here, walking among us.’
I frown, confused. ‘But you think it brought bad luck somehow?’
‘Stories change over time but the myths are different. No matter how much they change on the outside, their meaning inside stays true.’ He taps out a rhythm – one-two, one-two – on his chest and adds, ‘You can feel it between the words like a heartbeat. My father used to say the myths are a vessel of truth.’ He studies my face for a reaction then shakes his head, seemingly frustrated. ‘Some things are not meant to be changed.’
He turns to leave and an angry gust of wind shakes the treetops, making the firs tremble. Dozens of ravens line their branches, watching the circus with dark intent. I’m sure there weren’t that many before. A sudden foreboding grips me, and I have the feeling that things are spiralling out of control in a way I can’t understand.
Karl turns his watery eyes to the sky. ‘A storm is coming.’ I glance at the slate-grey clouds and shiver. He speaks so ominously I can’t help wonder if he’s the one who’s brought bad fortune on this place. He gazes into the distance and continues without looking at me. ‘I’ve lived and worked here all my life. My father managed the circus before me. I belong to these tents and these people; it’s in my blood.’
He falls silent, and I consider what strange coincidence brought me to this place. I may not belong to the circus in the way that he does, but I have a place with the gods, and like my ancestors I am part of their stories. And yet I know so little. Perhaps I am in over my head.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, Karl turns to me, his face stony. ‘Whatever happens, my place is here. But not yours. You should leave while you still can.’
10
STIG ISN’T HERE BECAUSE HE MISSES ME
R
uth lied. It doesn’t get any easier. The seventh customer eases herself up from the chair opposite and I sniff back a tear as she exits through the curtain. Her husband used to beat her. It started on their wedding day and lasted for five years, until she called the police last week. She left with nothing, just a body covered in bruises, a suitcase and her two children. She’s staying with a friend in town, who paid for her to have the reading with me. How will she feed the children, where will they go? What if he comes after them? She wanted so much to know what her future holds. I couldn’t give her any answers so I gave her a hug.
As the pain flowed out of her coat, I whispered what it was like for her living in fear all those years. There was such relief on her face. Maybe it was realising that someone believed her, or having someone put into words what she had kept hidden for so long. She didn’t have to tell me the awful things he’d done, because I saw them. Part of me wishes I hadn’t, but it’s over now. And I will gladly carry it with me if it helps her the tiniest bit.
Sandrine’s feathered face appears around the curtain and I lean back in my chair, relieved the session is over. ‘There’s one more, sorry.’ From the strange expression on her face, I’m guessing it’s not going to be an easy customer. She goes and I rub my pounding head, not helped by the fog of incense. I sigh, desperately wanting to be alone. I’ve barely had a moment to think about my conversation with Karl.
The curtain draws back and I stand up to welcome my last client.
Stig.
My heart roller-coaster dips. I don’t know whether to feel angry, relieved or happy. I blink at him, my emotions tumbling inside me. His dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he wears his usual black eyeliner. He smiles, revealing two perfect dimples, and I jump up.
‘You’re OK!’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he laughs.
‘So you went back to the island, you got my letter?’
He frowns. ‘No, I haven’t been there. Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. I’ve been busy and . . .’ He opens his arms as if to hug me. ‘It’s so good to see you, Martha! I’ve missed you.’
He’s been busy?
The words are a cold fist, reaching into my chest and stopping my heart. I step back and glare at him, unable to hide my hurt. Do I mean so little to him that he could just disappear without a word? I was convinced that something must have happened to him, that he would have got in touch if there was any way he could. And now here he is, larger than life and not a trace of worry on his face.
He looks at me expectantly but I have no idea what to say. In the end, I manage a terse, ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ There is something different about him, and now I realise what it is. His clothes are still black, but his battered leather trench coat is gone. In its place is a military-style jacket that looks brand new. Even his jeans are clean and less ripped.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask. And then it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t. ‘Presuming you came to see me.’
‘Of course I came to see you!’ He gestures to the armchairs. ‘Can we sit?’
‘Actually I’ve just finished for the day.’
He smiles. ‘I’ve paid for twenty minutes.’
I frown, wondering if he’s joking, and he looks slightly bewildered. What was he expecting – that I would throw myself into his arms? I grab my coat and he touches my arm.
‘Can I walk with you then? Please?’
‘If you want, but it’s not far to my caravan.’
‘I know.’ I throw him a sideways glance and he adds, ‘Ulva told me where you’re staying. We’re friends – that’s how I knew you were here. She called me yesterday and mentioned someone new called Martha had started; a psychic who reads clothes.’
We step through the curtains and Ruth looks up from reading for a client, her smile faltering when she sees who’s with me. Stig nods in her direction then quickly drops his gaze, and I realise they probably know each other. He must know a lot of people here. I hope Ruth didn’t overhear our conversation. If she knows I’ve met Stig before, she’ll realise I didn’t come here by chance. She’ll know I lied. She’s been so kind I don’t want her to think badly of me – or make me leave.
Outside, the sky is heavy with snow and the cold is more ferocious than ever. Stig pulls up his collar and we walk in uncomfortable silence, the wind ringing in our ears. All around us tents suck and billow in the breeze. I look at the frayed ropes, wondering how many storms they’ve weathered, and how many more it will take until they snap.
An icy gust pushes us back and Stig grins at me. For a moment it’s like before, us battling together. I frown, confused by how I can feel so many things at once – angry and upset and yet relieved to see him at the same time. Part of me wants to turn on him and demand the truth. Did he ever have any intention of coming back to the island? Could he really not have found the time to send one text? Pretending not to notice the hope in his eyes, I drop my head and keep walking. I like the chill of the wind. Numbness is a relief from the tug-of-war emotions inside me.
At the caravan I fumble with my key and open the door. Inside it’s freezing. The tiny sink is full of dirty cups and plates and I didn’t convert the bed back to a sofa this morning. It has that same smell of damp socks. I take in the squalid-looking sheets and feel my cheeks burn, but then why should I feel embarrassed? I wasn’t exactly expecting company.